


Speed Demons

by Esselle



Series: Speed Demons [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Car Racing, Car Sex, Fast Cars, M/M, Street Racing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 12:24:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6704464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esselle/pseuds/Esselle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>' “Starting tonight. You—” Daichi says, pointing at Kageyama, “—will be giving him—” he points at Hinata, “—racing lessons.” </p><p>Kageyama looks like he has swallowed ten lemons. Hinata, on the other hand, is just baffled.</p><p>“Wait a minute,” he asks. “Why is <i>he</i> giving me racing lessons?”</p><p>“Because I am absolutely, without a doubt, a hundred percent, better at racing than you are,” the mechanic replies bluntly. “And even if you race every day for the next decade, and I go blind, you still wouldn’t be a better driver than me.” '</p><p>--</p><p>All Hinata has wanted his entire life is a racetrack under the wheels of his car and a crew at his back. When he's offered a spot with the crew of Karasuno Auto Shop, he could have it all. There's only one thing blocking his path to the starting line: an absolute(ly smoking hot) asshole of an auto mechanic by the name of Kageyama Tobio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speed Demons

**Author's Note:**

> **Some mild warnings for:** brief panic attacks, and my own general lack of knowledge about street racing/car functionality. I also could not for the life of me decide between Mature or Explicit for the final rating, so please be aware that there is a sex scene in here, but it's a small portion of the fic as a whole.

The way the track comes alive during a race never ceases to amaze him.

It breathes; the engines at the starting line rev, ebb and flow like a heartbeat, the great inhalation and exhalation of the beast.

It roars; the flag drops and the cars leap forward, tires ripping over asphalt, the whine of the motors screaming through the night.

It senses fear; don’t slow, don’t stop, just drive, towards that finish line.

Hinata _drives._

He’s in second, hot on the heels of first place, and he knows he _can win—_ he just has to pass, and the green Nissan in his sights isn’t making it easy. He yanks the wheel of his orange Mazda hard right, gets blocked, swears and backs off, because he knows his chance is coming up. There’s a curve ahead, right under the overhead highway he sees fast approaching.

They tear down the straightaway, streetlights, traffic lights, neon lights flying past. No other cars on the road but the racers—it’s way into the small hours of the morning. The city sleeps, but the speed demons don’t.

Hinata gets right up on the bumper of the car in front of him. _Wait for it._ They hit the start of the curve.

He veers left, and the car in front swerves to cut him off.

_Gotcha._

Hinata slams one foot down on the brakes without letting off the gas, oversteering and drifting into a blistering hairpin turn, flinging his own car _underneath_ the car in front of him, stealing the inside of the curve and blasting out ahead, now in first place. He whoops in triumph.

“Yes, baby!”

He lets off the gas, shifts gears for the final straight stretch of road and—

There’s a shudder below his feet, that he feels in his bones. He’s all the way on the gas but not gaining momentum—in fact, he’s _slowing down._ He jams his foot on the accelerator, but it doesn’t do a goddamn thing.

“What the _hell is going on?!”_ he shouts, to no one in particular. It doesn’t matter; he’s not moving anywhere, coasting to a stop as the Nissan passes him, followed by third, fourth, fifth—

“No, nonono, NO!” He can’t believe this. He cannot fucking believe this. Uselessly, he turns the key in the ignition, hears the screech of the engine turning over, stomps on the gas, nothing. Distraught, he slams open the door, getting out to stand with one foot still in the car, watching as his victory goes to someone else.

He’s not going to place. He’s not even going to finish.

They send a couple of guys out to help him—nothing as organized as a pit crew, they don’t get that fancy on the streets. There’s no time. The cops are probably already on the way. He slumps back into his seat to help steer the car to the side of the road, raises a hand wordlessly in thanks to them as they pat the hood of the car in consolation. Groaning, he thuds his forehead down onto the steering wheel. Flicking his eyes up, he can watch as first place gets roped in for pictures. There’ll be prize money, exchanged later, but Hinata doesn’t care about that. He cares about that rush, of accomplishment, achievement. Crossing the finish line.

He wants to win.

There’s a tap on the glass, fingers. He rolls his head to the side. There are two guys standing there, guys he doesn’t know. Reluctantly, he rolls the window down.

“Hey,” he says, sullen.

“Hi,” says one of the men. “Hinata Shouyou, right? Having some car trouble?”

Hinata stares at him. He’s broad shouldered, handsome, and strangely clean-cut, unusual for the crowd that gathers for the night races. The man behind him stands out too, slender and smiling, pretty, almost. They both seem pretty unassuming.

“Yeah,” he says. “Slightly.”

“You have a place to get it looked at?”

“I did,” Hinata snorts. “But I’m thinking I may try my luck elsewhere, now.” Because he is absolutely going to kill his old mechanic. He will make sure they never find the body.

The man leans in, smiling. “I may have a place. If you’re open to it.”

“If I’m ‘open to it’?” Hinata repeats blankly. “I’m fucking trapped here. My car won’t start. So, yeah, unless you want me to sell my body for repairs—which, all things depending, could still be on the table—then I’m definitely open to it.”

The man looks a bit stunned. His friend laughs openly.

“See, Daichi, I told you to just tell him. Stop being so cryptic.”

Daichi clears his throat. “Right. Well—look, we’ve been watching you. For awhile.”

“It’s totally going to be the selling my body thing, isn’t it?” Hinata asks.

“No!” Daichi rubs a hand over his face. “Let me start again. I’m Sawamura Daichi. This is Sugawara Koushi—he’s a driver. I handle his repairs.”

Hinata squints at them. They do not look like any driver-mechanic pair he’s ever encountered. He’s also never heard of Sugawara Koushi, and he knows most of the drivers on the main circuits.

“I guess you could say we’re new to the scene,” Sugawara says, smiling. “Call me Suga, by the way.”

“You’re good.” Daichi says. “A little rough around the edges, but you’ve got good instincts.”

Hinata perks up a bit. “You think?

“Yeah.” Daichi nods. “We’d like you to race for us.”

“Us?” Hinata asks.

“For our garage. We’ve got some good drivers—you’d be a nice addition.” Daichi shrugs. “I get it if solo racing is your thing, but it seems like you could use a more reliable shop, and any repair costs incurred racing would be on us, so, well…”

Hinata holds up a hand. “Hold on, let me get this straight.” Daichi and Suga exchange looks. “You’ve been watching me—because you think I’m good. And you want me to join your shop or team or whatever, and race with you guys. Like, on a crew? And I’d get… free maintenance out of this?”

“That’s the score,” Daichi says.

Hinata taps his fingers on the wheel. Then he breaks into a grin, wide and genuine. The sound of police sirens cuts through the cool night air. “Help me get my car to your shop.”

*

Karasuno Auto Shop is moderately sized, and a fair sight more organized and less shitty than roughly 97% of garages Hinata has had to endure since he started racing. After Daichi and Suga help him tow his car back, he leaves it there for the night with the promise that he’ll return the next day to check in on its status, start to get settled in, and meet some of the other drivers. He’s buzzing with excitement by the time he steps back into the place the next afternoon.

The sound of machinery, engines, boisterous laughter and loud voices makes him want to grin. He loves this atmosphere, lives off of it, really. And it’s been awhile since he had a regular place, somewhere that actually felt like he was leaving his car in safe and capable hands.

“Hinata!” someone calls out almost immediately, and he turns to see Suga waving him over. He’s standing next to a bright bumblebee of a car, canary yellow with thick black lines running right down the middle of the hood. It’s a classic vehicle, all muscle generating speed. Two men, one tall, the other tiny, stand with him. They are apparently in the middle of some kind of argument.

“…trying to tell you I don’t _need_ another nitrous tank,” the tall one says, “Any more would be—”

“Awesome?” the small one interjects. _“_ _Totally_ awesome?”

“Inefficient,” supplies the other man. “And potentially hazardous to my health.”

“You think _everything_ is hazardous to your health.”

Their argument is stalled when they catch sight of Hinata approaching, eyeing the car. “Is that a 1970 Buick GSX? Wait, no—1971?”

“Uh, yeah,” the tall man nods. He seems sheepish. “Good eye. Yeah, that’s mine.”

“Ours,” says the little one, smacking him in the arm. He has a streak of yellow in his hair, the same color as the car.

“Hinata,” Suga says, smiling. “Meet Asahi and Noya. Asahi is one of our drivers—”

“And I’m his mechanic,” Noya says, grinning.

Hinata looks the car over and whistles. “You’re going to put _more_ nitrous on that?”

 _“No,”_ Asahi says.

“Yep!” Noya overrides him. “Come on, Asahi, live a little!”

“Does it count if I’m trying to keep you from killing me?” Asahi asks forlornly.

Suga claps him on the shoulder. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it. Come on, Hinata, follow me.” And he sets off, a wide-eyed Hinata in tow. “Daichi asked me to show you around,” the older man says. “He’s sorry he couldn’t be here to say hi on your first day, but he had to handle some outside business for the shop. He should be here soon, though.”

They pass by more cars, more drivers as they walk. A low rumbling sounds from behind them and Suga puts out a hand, stopping Hinata as a black motorbike with red accents whizzes by, mud splattered tires and chassis barely missing them. Hinata recognizes it as a KTM Adventure R—but the red paint is definitely a custom job.

“Tanaka,” Suga calls out. “No riding _in_ the garage, we need to walk somewhere.”

The biker pulls off their helmet revealing a man with close cropped hair and a troublemaker’s grin. He’s about as muddy as the bike. “Sorry, Suga!”

“You think you’re sorry now,” says another man with dark hair, wiping his hands as he emerges from around the side of a truck. “Did you go dirt biking?”

“Ah…” Tanaka tries to laugh brazenly, and fails. “Chikara, I thought you weren’t working today…”

The other man stares at him, unimpressed. “You have a race in two days—how many times do I need to say this? Don’t go out on the trails if you’re riding that on the streets in under a week!”

Suga ushers Hinata along. “That’s Tanaka Ryuunosuke, Ennoshita Chikara. Tanaka is currently our only motorcyclist, but he makes up for it with versatility.” He shakes his head fondly. “He is a terror on any terrain. And on Chikara’s tool kit.”

“So cool…” Hinata whispers. He loves biking, though it’s not his forte. He’s practically walking backwards, staring at Tanaka as he gets chewed out by Ennoshita, when he slams straight into something behind him and stumbles.

“Oh, sorry,” says a voice that doesn’t sound sorry at all. “I wasn’t looking down. Maybe you should watch where you’re going.”

Hinata spins around and then has to look up to see who’s talking. The man he’s bumped into is scarily tall, blonde with glasses that frame gold eyes. It seems like he’s sneering down at Hinata, somehow, even if his expression looks blank.

Suga sounds exasperated when he speaks. “Ah, Tsukishima—meet Hinata, one of our new drivers.”

“Daichi’s taking in strays now?” Tsukishima asks, and Hinata bristles. Before he can respond, another voice calls out across the floor.

“Tsukki!”

Tsukishima turns to look in the direction of the voice. “Don’t call me that, Yamaguchi.”

Another man, a cheerful smile on his face, is waving him over from next to a gleaming white Suzuki Kizashi Concept 2. He drops the hood and yells back, “Sorry!”

“That’s yours?” Hinata asks Tsukishima, and smirks, pretending to hide his sly grin behind a hand.

“What?” Tsukishima asks, eyebrow raised.

“Well… your name is Tsukishima and you drive a Suzuki…” Hinata can’t stop himself from snorting. “Can I call you Suzukishima?”

“Okay, then, let’s move on!” Suga cuts in quickly at the look on the blonde man’s face. He hurries Hinata along, pointing out a little silver Toyota MR2 Spyder as they go. 2001 or 2002, Hinata thinks. “That’s me,” Suga says. The car suits the silver-haired man, who winks playfully. “It’s small, but fast. Daichi’s made some… modifications.”

“I can’t believe I’ve never heard of you guys…” Hinata says. “You have this many drivers, but you said you’re new?”

“Well, maybe new isn’t quite the right word,” Suga admits. “I guess you could call this more of a second chance for me and Daichi.”

“Second chance at what?” Hinata asks.

“Maybe… being a part of something worthwhile.” Suga ruffles a hand through his silver hair. “It makes sense you haven’t heard of us. The past few years have been, uh, interesting. But…” He smiled. “I have a good feeling, now.”

Maybe it’s weird for Hinata to trust this guy that he’s just met, like, twelve hours ago—but something about Suga makes him _believe,_ and he feels a surge of excitement prickling in his heart, the kind he feels before a big race, that slim instant right before a red light turns green.

“Ah, sorry,” Suga says, waving his hand embarrassedly. “I’m not usually this sentimental—”

“Could have fooled me,” says Daichi’s voice behind them, and they both turn to see him approaching.

“You give approximately four dramatic speeches a month,” Suga retorts. “Don’t give me that.”

“I’m just trying to inspire the masses!” Daichi protests.

“There were no masses up until last year,” Suga says dryly.

“Okay!” Daichi claps his hands together loudly. “Hinata, why don’t we go meet your mechanic?”

“Sounds good—wait, _my_ mechanic? I get my own mechanic?”

“That’s part of the deal,” Daichi nods. “It ensures our drivers and their cars are always at fighting strength. Plus, I like to think it sweetens the pot.”

“It definitely does,” Hinata tells him excitedly. Daichi leads him through a gate in the rear of the garage to the dusty car park out back. It’s mostly empty, but it’s a nice little glimpse of what Daichi and Suga must be hoping the place will be one day.

It’s a hot day out, the sun beating down, and Hinata sees the telltale gleam of bright orange as soon as they step out the door.

“She’s alive!” he yells gleefully.

“Or she will be soon, at least,” Daichi grins. “This guy’s good. Kind of a genius with cars.”

That’s perfect, because Hinata knows how to race cars, but he doesn’t know shit about fixing them up.

“Hey, Kageyama, come up for air for a minute, will you?” Daichi asks. The mechanic is under the body of the car and all Hinata can see are a pair of sturdy boots under what looks like grey coveralls.

Coveralls. So he’s expecting the usual—a stocky, greasy guy with a bit of a beer belly and a little too much facial hair. Or maybe a weedy kid with some pimples who’s been around cars since he could walk.

Then the mechanic rolls out from underneath the car slowly, like he’s not quite sure why somebody would request it of him, and Hinata wonders if he is maybe dreaming.

Kageyama is not stocky, or weedy. He’s tall as hell, when he finally stands up. His coveralls are shoved down to his waist, probably due to the heat, and the white sleeveless undershirt he is wearing below them sticks to his body from the sheen of sweat on his skin. The shirt clings to the kind of muscles that Hinata has never believed existed on people who don’t model for a living. His arms are _distracting,_ toned, smeared with dirt and grease, and highlighted and shiny from perspiration. His shoulders and chest are no better, broad and strong.

He’s frowning at them slightly, dark blue eyes trained on Hinata. He swipes his arm across his forehead, leaving a smudge of grease there, before sweeping his black hair out of his face. It just ends up falling right back into place.

“Hi,” Hinata says, and waves slightly.

Kageyama stares at him. “Who are you?”

“Um,” Hinata swallows. “That’s my car.”

“This is yours?” Kageyama asks, jerking a thumb at the RX7.

“Yeah,” Hinata nods.

“Oh.” Kageyama glares at him. “It’s a piece of shit. What the hell have you been doing with it all this time?”

Hinata gapes at him.

“Well,” Suga starts to say, in a placating tone, when Hinata finds his voice.

 _“Excuse me?”_ he snaps, shrilly.  

“You call yourself a driver?” Kageyama scoffs at him. “Do you have any idea how many things are wrong with this thing? I’m going to have to spend at least a week getting it back up to road regulations, never mind suitable for racing conditions. Seems like the only thing you managed to keep in shape was the paint job.” He looks absolutely sickened.

“Yeah?” Hinata asks, incensed. “Well, that _piece of shit_ nearly took first place on circuit seven last night—and I would have, too, if—”

“If your car hadn’t stalled out?” Kageyama says mockingly. “Yeah, a malfunctioning nitrous valve will do that. And that’s the least of your problems. I’m surprised you haven’t blown up yet.”

“Well,” Hinata says, “I guess you better get back down there and fix all of them before the next race.”

Kageyama whirls around to stare at Daichi. “Are you kidding me with this? This is my driver?”

“Yes,” Daichi says, unpityingly. “Kageyama Tobio, meet Hinata Shouyou.”

“No,” Kageyama shakes his head. “No way.”

“Hey, okay,” Hinata says. “Maybe I don’t want to be partnered up with you, anyway.”

 _“Maybe,”_ Daichi says, his eyes flashing, “neither of you has a choice, and you’ll partner with whoever I tell you to, because I’m the one giving you both a damn job.”

“That’s—” Kageyama starts to say, but Daichi shakes his head.

“That’s non-negotiable. And Kageyama—you should be happy to meet someone so excitable and willing to learn about the sport of racing.”

“Why?” Kageyama asks.

“Because,” Daichi smiles, “you’re going to be teaching him everything you know.”

 _“What?!”_ Hinata and Kageyama both shout.

“Starting tonight. You—” Daichi says, pointing at Kageyama, “—will be giving him—” he points at Hinata, “—racing lessons.”

Kageyama looks like he has swallowed ten lemons. Hinata, on the other hand, is just baffled.

“Wait a minute,” he asks. “Why is he giving me racing lessons? I know how to race.”

Suga grins. “Yes, you do. But you’re still new.”

“Does he even drive?” Hinata demands.

“No,” Kageyama says.

“Then why—”

“Because I am absolutely, without a doubt, a hundred percent, better at racing than you are,” the mechanic replies bluntly. “And even if you race every day for the next decade, and I go blind, you still wouldn’t be a better driver than me.”

Hinata’s jaw drops. “Do you even hear yourself?”

“Well, you’ll have plenty of time to argue about this tonight, it seems,” Daichi says cheerfully. “Now that you’ve met—Kageyama, we’ll leave you to the car. Hinata, you come with us, I want to walk you through some stuff—”

Hinata walks right up to Kageyama and stares him down. Or tries to, anyway. He plants a finger in the middle of his chest. “If you’re such a hotshot, then why don’t you race me? Tonight.”

Kageyama crosses his arms over his chest. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” the tall man says. “I don’t need to beat you to know I’m better than you.”

“Right,” Hinata nods. “Say whatever you want. It doesn’t make you any less scared.”

He’s hit a nerve. Kageyama’s nostrils flare.

“Say that again,” he hisses.

“I said.” Hinata shoves himself up on his tiptoes. He is still not nearly as tall as Kageyama. “If you weren’t _scared_ of me, then you’d have no problem _racing_ me.”

Kageyama’s hand shoots out, fisting in the front of his t-shirt. _“Listen up,_ you miniature turd—” he starts to say, before a heavy hand clamps down on each of their necks.

“I don’t care which one of you is scared of who,” Daichi says, his voice truly terrifying. “But if you think you have no reason to be scared of _me,_ then you have another thing coming. _Got that?”_

Kageyama chokes. Hinata squeaks. Daichi releases them.

“Good. Tonight. Circuit three. I’m expecting time reports—daily.” He turns on his heel. “Hinata, let’s go.”

Hinata starts to follow, then turns back to Kageyama, considering.

“Hinata…” Daichi starts to say warningly.

“You’ve got grease on your forehead,” Hinata tells Kageyama.

Kageyama makes a face at him, and swipes at the mark with the back of his hand. It gets greasier.

“You made it worse,” Hinata snickers.

Kageyama glares at him, before yanking up the bottom of his tank top to wipe over his face, exposing a veritable promised land of flexing abdominal muscles. He’s so cut it almost stings to look at him.

Kageyama Tobio may be a total asshole, but he is a ridiculously hot total asshole. It turns Hinata on about as equally as it pisses him off.

One other thing catches his attention—a long, thin, pale scar that runs from just below Kageyama’s waistband on the inside of his hip, up over his stomach, curving around to his side. It looks fully healed, but whatever caused it can’t have been a fun time.

Kageyama finishes scrubbing at his forehead and lets his shirt drop. “Happy?” he asks, now that his face is clean. Hinata sticks his tongue out at him and scampers off after Daichi.

Truthfully, the dirt is a good look on him. But there is no way in hell Hinata is going to tell him this.  

*

The night arrives and they meet at the shop. The lapse in daylight hours seems to have called for a temporary truce, so they are mostly silent as they head toward the track. Hinata doesn’t drive the Mazda, Kageyama won’t let him race it yet—instead he has a similar make and model Daichi has loaned him, and though it’s close, it’s not the same. If nothing else, he’s itching to be behind the wheel of his own car again.

Then they actually start the lesson. It can probably be considered an extreme disaster.

Kageyama has Hinata running circuit three over and over. It’s two A.M., he’s lost track of how many times he’s done it, but apparently, it’s not enough to satisfy the sullen mechanic in his passenger seat.

“Go again,” Kageyama says.

Hinata puts the car in park. “Why?” he asks, feeling petulant. “You won’t even tell me what it is I should be working on.”

Kageyama has been mainly staring out the window. The late night lights play over his face in pink and green and blue. He’s changed out of his work clothes, opting for a slim hoodie, dark jeans, Chuck Taylor’s. Hinata really wants to punch him in the face. But also, he wants to punch him in the face using his mouth, a bit.

“There is nothing you shouldn’t be working on,” Kageyama informs him. “It’s all terrible.”

…Yeah, he really wants to make out with Kageyama. But he’s going to refrain, because Kageyama is a douche.

“Okay,” Hinata says, “what, _exactly_ , is your _deal?_ Can you clue me in? What crawled up all your…” he waves his hands vaguely, “your body holes and died?”

 _“ _‘_ Body holes’_ _?”_ Kageyama repeats.

“Whatever,” Hinata snaps. “I’m not a doctor, I don’t know technical terms. I’m asking you why you feel like it’s necessary to be such an asshole, all the time.”

“I’m not being an asshole,” Kageyama says. “I’m just telling you the truth.”

“Nnnno,” Hinata says slowly, “no, you are definitely being an asshole. Are you seriously unaware of that?”

Kageyama turns the full force of his glare on him. “Your handling sucks. It’s completely inefficient. You’re shifting gears too slow in turns, you accelerate too late coming out of them, you’re oversteering when you should be—”

“Alright!” Hinata yells, red-faced. “Look, maybe there are some things I need to improve. But, hey, I’d just like to point out that even _with_ all of that, I’ve nearly won a half a dozen races, and I just started—”

“Have you ever _won_ a race, though?” Kageyama cuts him off.

Hinata freezes. “What?”

“Have you actually won a race?” Kageyama asks again. “Have you ever taken first?”

“I—” Hinata splutters. “Well, not _yet—_ but I told you I just started racing, so realistically—”

Kageyama leans in, eyes locked on his. “If you’ve never won a race,” he says in a low voice, “then why are you wasting time arguing with me, instead of running the track?”

Hinata stays silent.

“Until you’re taking first on every track Daichi puts you on, until you’re undefeated, you don’t have room to sit there running your mouth off,” Kageyama pronounces with finality.

“Alright, chill,” Hinata grumbles. “It's not like I'm the Dark Horse.”

“What?” Kageyama snaps.

“Nothing,” Hinata sighs. He’d just thrown the name of a talented racer out there without thinking. Rumor had it the man had never lost a race, but he’d disappeared from the circuit following a bad crash. Hinata wrinkles his nose. Kageyama probably somehow still thinks he’s better than the Dark Horse, so whatever.

But the other man doesn’t respond to him, facing forward instead.

“Go again.”

The rest of the week sees little improvement. By Friday, the two of them are so fed up with one another that the only words they exchange are Kageyama repeatedly barking “Go again,” and Hinata asking for his times. Beyond that, they are silent. Each of them seethes in their own seat. Kageyama watches Hinata while he drives, and Hinata watches Kageyama while they are parked at the designated starting spot, and beyond that they do not make eye contact, perhaps in tacit acknowledgment of the spark it would be sure to set off.

The tension finally boils over around Hinata’s fifty-fourth attempt that night. He manages to hang a particularly reckless turn through a curve, looping back on the track to make up for a bit of lost time, and undercuts his previous best by nearly a full two seconds.

He screeches to a stop, pulls his shaking hands off the wheel, and then grins, raking his fingers through his hair. When he turns to look at Kageyama, the other man doesn’t look away.

“How was _that?”_ he asks. He would have easily taken first place in any of the races he’s competed in so far with those moves. “Huh?”

Kageyama chews on the inside of his cheek. “You might come close to placing in a tournament race with times like that.”

Hinata drops his hands from his hair. He stares at Kageyama.

Somehow, Kageyama looks actually stunned when Hinata launches himself forward and head butts him in the chest. He lets out a pained grunt, then grabs handfuls of Hinata’s hair, shoving at him.

“What the fuck is _wrong with you?!”_ he shouts.

“Me?!” Hinata yells back, fists swinging. “What’s wrong with you?! That’s the best time I’ve had in at least three hundred runs—”

“I didn’t say it _wasn’t!”_ Kageyama blocks his haphazard blows. “I was trying to be _nice!”_

“How is that being nice, Kageyama, how, _how?”_ Hinata smacks at him ineffectively. “I don’t even think you know what that word _means.”_

“What else do you want me to say?” the other man demands.

“You could tell me what I’m doing _wrong,_ what to try different _,_ literally anything besides all of the words that actually come out of your mouth!”

“I _do_ do that!” Kageyama finally manages to wrench Hinata off of him, awkwardly pushing him back into the driver’s seat with one foot. Defeated, Hinata raises his hands and slumps back against the door. “I tell you those things and you freak out, you’re doing it right now.”

“Then maybe you should try a different approach,” Hinata says, swiftly dodging around what may be an accurate observation—but it’s not entirely his fault, anyone would react the same way after sitting in a car for four hours every night getting alternately berated or ignored.  

“Like _what,_ Hinata, I’m not fucking psychic.”

“Like telling me what I’m doing right,” Hinata offers. “Or, here’s a fun idea, maybe we swap and you _show me,_ since you’re apparently such a prodigy.”

“Or we could not,” Kageyama says sourly.

“Why?”

“Because Daichi said he wants _you_ to run the track, because _you_ are the one who needs to improve. The first race of the tournament is in less than two months.”

“But,” Hinata says, “if you're so great at this, don’t you think I could get a lot better just by watching you? It would only have to be once or twice.”

“I said no.”

“Right, you did, you always say no.” Hinata reaches over to put the car in drive again. There’s no point in running the track again. He may as well head back to the garage, where he normally drops Kageyama off, before heading home. “Starting to get the feeling you’re not all everyone makes you out to be.”

Kageyama bristles. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I just figured, if you really are so good, it shouldn’t be that much of a hardship for you to just show me a thing or two,” Hinata points out. “So like, what’s really going on there?” He takes the chance to shoot an utterly shit-eating grin in Kageyama’s direction. “Worried I’m better?”

“Hardly,” Kageyama mutters.

“When’s the last time you raced, then?” Hinata presses.

“Do you want it in hours, or days?” Kageyama mutters.

“Either is fine.”

There is a long pause. Hinata is just getting ready to tell him he wasn’t actually _serious,_ for crying out loud, when Kageyama speaks again.

“Twenty nine thousand, seven hundred and ninety four hours,” he says, a bit hesitantly. Then, “I think, anyway. Math’s not my thing.”

Hinata blinks. He turns to stare at the other man. Kageyama is looking fixedly out the window again. To Hinata’s surprise, he actually keeps talking.

“Three years and four months. And twenty days. It’s not hard to figure out from there, right, you just multiply—”

“I know how you do the math, you idiot,” Hinata says.

“Okay, well, you asked, so—”

“What the hell happened?” Hinata cuts him off bluntly.

“What do you mean?” Kageyama asks. “I stopped racing.”

“I have figured that out at this point, thanks,” Hinata tells him impatiently. “Why did you stop racing?”

Kageyama shifts awkwardly. “I didn’t want to do it anymore.”

Hinata laughs out loud. “Fuck off.”

This draws Kageyama’s attention from the window. “Why even bother asking me this shit?”

“You didn’t want to stop racing,” Hinata says, with certainty.

“How do you figure that, dumbass?” Kageyama asks. “I wasn’t aware you knew me so well.”

“Don’t I?” Hinata fires back. “I watch how you work on the cars, at the shop. I see the way you look out the windshield when _I’m_ behind the wheel. You can’t sit still while you’re riding shotgun, you’re so obvious about it.”

“Obvious about what?”

“How much you love it!” Hinata bursts out. “No, actually—how much you miss it.”

“Hinata…” Kageyama says, his voice tense. His eyebrows are pulling together, a deep frown on his face.

“I know what it’s like, okay?” Hinata says angrily. “Maybe you don’t, but I do—wanting to race and not being able to, because you’re not good enough, because you don’t have the wheels, the crew—how do you think I ended up driving my car into the ground?” He glares at Kageyama. “You’re apparently good enough not to have to worry about any of that shit. And you’re seriously telling me you don’t want to race ever again? At all?”

 _“Yes,”_ Kageyama grinds out, warning evident in his voice.

“Okay, then tell me what happened,” Hinata insists. He knows he’s probably prying way over the boundaries of what is acceptable. He doesn’t care. If Daichi is going to stick him with Kageyama, if Kageyama is going to treat him like a nuisance every step of the way, if Hinata is going to have to work _this hard_ to get what he’s always hoped for, then he’s not just going to sit there silently.

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Kageyama says.

“Got pulled in by the cops?” Hinata guesses. “Times start getting slower? Lose a big race?”

“Yeah,” Kageyama nods faintly. He’s pressing a hand to his forehead, massaging his temples. “Something like that.”

“That’s it?” Hinata asks, surprised. “I lose races all the time—well, I guess we covered that already. You can’t have won every race ever. You just have to keep going, you know?”

“It was different,” Kageyama growls. “I _don’t want_ to talk about it.”

If Hinata was any good at paying attention, he might have noticed that this was the time to stop. If he was any good at paying attention, he would have noticed Kageyama’s clenched teeth, his hands balled into fists in his lap, the obvious headache the conversation has brought on. But he isn’t good at paying attention.

“I don’t get it,” he says. “Are you, like, scared, or something?” He’s asked him that before. It is the most innocuous of questions.

He’s not expecting to hear the heaving gasp Kageyama lets out, not expecting to hear him scrabbling for the door handle, and they’re _still moving,_ their speed is street legal but they’re not exactly arriving at a stop. The passenger door flies open.

Hinata’s tires squeal as he slams on the brakes, so he’s not going as fast as he could have been when Kageyama literally quits the entire car ride and tumbles out of the door, almost gaining his feet before stumbling and falling to the pavement. Hinata throws it in park and bolts out of the car, running to help him.

“What the hell?!” he yelps, slightly terrified. “Kageyama, what the hell are you thinking?” He hauls the other man up to a sitting position, checking for damage. His palms are scratched bloody and there’s a new hole in the knee of his jeans, but other than that, he seems fine, if dazed.

“I can walk from here,” he says.

“Are you insane?” Hinata demands. “Get in the car.”

Kageyama swallows. “I _can’t.”_

He can’t. Not he won’t, not he doesn’t want to. Can’t.

Hinata really looks at him. Kageyama’s eyes are glassy, his breathing is coming too fast, when he swallows it almost seems painful. He is rubbing one hand over his stomach and side, almost like it’s cramped up. But if Hinata is right, then it’s not anything like that.

Hinata sits down on the curb next to him. “Okay.”  

“What are you doing?” Kageyama asks. “We’re done. Go home.”

Hinata shakes his head. “Nah.”

They don’t say another word for a good long while. Not until the sky brightens the tiniest bit. When Hinata looks at him again, he feels like he can see Kageyama a bit better.

“You wanna head home now?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Kageyama nods. He stands and Hinata stands with him, side by side as they walk down the sidewalk. When they get to the car, Kageyama takes a breath and opens the passenger side door to get in. Hinata bumps it closed with his hip.

“I’ll walk you home,” he says.

The other man shrugs. “You’re not legally parked.”

“It’s not far,” Hinata says, waving off his protests.

“You’re going to get towed,” Kageyama tells him.   

“It’ll be fine.”

*

It’s not fine. He gets towed.

Daichi is unamused. He calls Hinata over to deliver what Hinata thinks must be both the scariest and most fatherly lecture he’s ever received in his life. But towards the end, while in the middle of a rant about responsibility and how “being part of an illegal street racing gang does not give you an excuse for completely ignoring road rules and regulations” (Hinata thinks it kind of _does,_ actually), he pauses for breath.

“Alright, look, you’re not getting kicked out or anything,” he says, and Hinata sighs in relief. “Kageyama gave me your times for last night. The last one in particular—not bad. He says you’re getting better.”

“I—he—well, yeah!” Hinata manages to say, stunned. Is he having a heart attack? His chest feels weird, really weird—kind of tight. “Is he… is he here already?”

“No, he called to say he’d be out most of the day. He might come in later.”

“Oh,” Hinata nods, and tries not to look—no, he’s not worried at all. “Right. Does that mean we’re not doing time trials tonight, or…?”

“That’s up to him,” Daichi says. “You can ask him yourself.”

Hinata nods again and turns to leave.

“I’m glad you two are getting along now, at least,” Daichi remarks.

Is that what they’re doing? Hinata smiles weakly, and doesn’t bother to correct him.

He hurries out from under Daichi’s line of sight as fast as he can manage. He’s already been instructed to go to the impound to try and pick up the car—apparently the owner owes Daichi a favor or two. On his way, he spies Asahi and Noya. Well, Noya’s lower body—he’s currently leaning under the hood of the yellow Buick.

A thought occurs to Hinata—probably one he shouldn’t entertain, but he’s going to do it anyway. He waves as he approaches and Asahi looks up from the car magazine he’s flipping through.

“Hinata, hey,” he says, smiling. “Good to see you alive and kicking.”

“Yeah,” Noya calls back. “We were pretty sure Kageyama would have ended you by now.”

Hinata winces. “Ah, no… he hasn’t, yet.”

“Yet!” Noya crows, laughing.

“Look, about him,” Hinata says, serious enough to make them both take note. Noya pulls back from under the hood to look at him, wiping his hands on a nearby (already filthy) towel. “How long have you guys known him?”

“Um…” Asahi considers. “I've known him since he started working for Daichi, I guess.”

“But we’ve both known _of_ him for longer,” Noya says. His eyes are shrewd.

“Right,” Hinata nods. “So, about three years ago. Was there a… was there an accident?”

The other two glance at each other.  

“Do you know what car he used to race?” Noya asks. “Has he told you?”

Hinata shakes his head, not sure why that matters.

“He drove a Dodge Challenger SRT8,” Asahi supplies. “Custom flat black paint job. Gorgeous car, I still remember what the engines sounded like.”

Hinata inhales sharply, realization dawning. “You’re shitting me,” he whispers.

“We are not,” Noya says.

“No way.” Hinata rubs a hand over the back of his neck. _“_ _No way_ —Kageyama’s the _Dark Horse?”_

“Yeah,” Asahi confirms, and he’s not smiling anymore.

“Oh, crap,” Hinata mutters. “Oh, man—I—”

“Hinata, what’s wrong?” Asahi asks, but Hinata is already turning on his heel and racing out of the shop.

*

Kageyama doesn’t pick up his phone when Hinata calls—not that Hinata was expecting him to. But he’s also not at the address on the scrap of paper Hinata finds crumpled in his jacket pocket, disregarded after Suga had given it to him at the beginning of the week. In fact, he appears to be nowhere—he’s not at any of the circuits, and no one at the shop seems to have a clue where he might have gone. But he hasn’t gotten a text or email about calling off practice that night, so at half past midnight, he drags himself back to the shop.

It’s empty, like it always is this time of night. Kageyama isn’t there. He’s about to finally give up, to call it quits, when he hears a distant clatter, and then a very recognizable voice erupting into a stream of curses. He makes a beeline for the back door, the one that leads to the car park out back and—

There he is.

Hinata blinks at the sudden brightness. It should be completely dark out, but instead, the dirt lot is lit up by a set of work lights, fluorescent white beaming down on a covered vehicle. There are tools scattered all over the ground, seemingly by accident, proven more likely by the fact that Kageyama is swearing as he bends to gather them all up again. He appears to have tripped over one of the electrical lines extending from his makeshift floodlight contraption.

“Kageyama?” Hinata calls, stepping out into the lot. Kageyama spins around.

“Hinata—what are you doing here?” he asks, bewildered.

“I didn’t know if we’d be practicing today or not,” Hinata says.

“You want to?” Kageyama looks even more confused, if that’s possible.

“Yeah,” Hinata nods. “Yeah, I really do. And I’m—I’m really, _really_ sorry about last night.”

“Why are _you_ sorry—” Kageyama starts to ask, but Hinata strides forward, reaching him and, before he can continue, yanks his shirt up over his stomach. Kageyama yelps. “Hinata?!”

Yeah, he can see it clearly under the lights. The old scar he’d caught a glimpse of on the first day they’d met, the one that means Kageyama was sliced open from his hip to high on his stomach, the one that means…

“You almost died,” Hinata says softly.

And Kageyama just says, “Yeah.”

Unthinkingly, Hinata touches it. Just with one finger—trails it over the pale line down Kageyama’s stomach, over the sharp swell of his hip.

Kageyama shivers, and a bit too late, Hinata realizes what he’s doing is very weird. He yanks his hand away.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He’s not even sure what he’s sorry about anymore. “I was wrong, last night.

“How’d you figure it out?” Kageyama asks, hands fidgeting at his sides.

“I know there aren’t a lot of things that could make me stop racing,” Hinata says. “But…”

Having his body ripped open? Yeah, that might do it.

“I just sorta guessed,” he continues. “And I asked Asahi and Nishinoya about it. They confirmed it. I, um. That’s when I realized who you are.”

“I’m nobody,” Kageyama shrugs.

“That’s not true,” Hinata says. Kageyama opens his mouth to argue and Hinata cuts him off. “I saw you race, once. I think I was maybe… sixteen or seventeen? It was one of your first races.” He knows they are about the same age. That night, he’d left the track early, right after the race ended. He had never even seen Kageyama’s face.

“And?”

Hinata laughs. He laughs, because he remembers that rush of mad, exhilarating joy. “Up ‘til that point, I thought that there was just… no point in trying. That I’d never be able to get out there. That I’d be stuck just driving down main roads, sitting in traffic in some shitty salary vehicle, pretending I was on a track somewhere. Or standing on the sidelines watching races like yours.”

“So?” Kageyama asks. He looks actually curious now, even if he’s not quite looking directly at Hinata.

“So, I saw you race, stupid,” Hinata tells him. “They kept saying ‘oh, this kid, he’s a dark horse, he’s competing against some really big names’—and then you just took it.”

Hinata holds his hand up right in front of Kageyama’s face and clenches it into a fist. Kageyama looks at his hand, zeroes in on that gesture, and then finally looks at him.

“Yeah,” he nods.

“You took it all from them,” says Hinata, remembering. He remembers everything about that night. “And I thought, I want to do that. I saw you race and it made me feel like I could do anything.”

The look Kageyama is giving him is alarming. Hinata has never been stared at so intensely in his life. It’s making him nervous, so he just keeps talking.

“That’s how I got started, I guess. I just did what I could, fell in with whoever would take me, eventually got my own car—tried to maintain it the best I could. I guess I failed at that…”

“You didn’t fail,” Kageyama mumbles. “It could just use a little work. That’s why I’m here.”

Hinata beams at him. “Well, whatever. The point is, I just knew I wanted to race. I had to do it, no matter what I had to do to get there, and you’re the entire reason I even started. And I didn’t even know it was you. I mean, I was barely doing any major circuits when you were still racing. But I heard about… about the crash, and then you just disappeared…”

It had made waves across the entire scene when it happened. One of racing’s most prominent, up and coming talents, brought low right when things were starting to take off. It had shaken things up—racing wasn’t safe, that was true enough, but it had been a brutal accident. Hinata hadn’t been sure the racer they called Dark Horse had even survived, up until earlier that very afternoon.

“I just…” Kageyama exhales long and slow. “It took a long time to get back in shape. And then I just needed some time away, and I met Daichi during all of it and he never tried to force me into getting behind the wheel again…”

“So you’re just doing this, in the meantime,” Hinata says.

“Yeah.” Kageyama looks out over the lot, at all the cars that he makes perfect one by one.

“Are you happy?”

Dark blue eyes meet Hinata’s own.

“No.”

Hinata nods. “Well. That’s at least somewhere to start.” He looks out at the lights, the scattered tools, the covered car. “What the hell are you doing out here, anyway? Aside from standing me up, obviously.”

Kageyama snorts. He dumps some of the tools in a workbox and walks over to the mystery vehicle, putting a hand out to the cover. Slowly, he pulls it away.

“Oh, _man…”_ Hinata breathes, when he finally sees what the cover has been hiding.

It’s a car. Or, what used to be a car, anyway. The metal frame is battered, the driver’s side smashed in entirely as though a giant picked it up and crushed it between its fingers. The black leather interior is ripped and worn. It’s dusty, dirty, rusty, and an all-around sorry sight. But Hinata still recognizes it. He’d have to be blind not to recognize it.

They didn’t continue to call Kageyama Tobio the 'Dark Horse' because no one expected him to win. It was the exact opposite. He was the favorite of every race. People said he’d never lost on home turf—not that anyone could remember.

The name was a reference to his car, as most racers’ hard earned titles were—people said the black powerhouse he drove seemed like a living thing when he was behind the wheel, a breathing creature made of metal instead of skin and bone. It obeyed his every command and carried him to victory time and time again, like a war beast of legend.

Now it sits in front of Hinata, mangled, dilapidated, torn to bits. It breaks his heart.

He can’t imagine what seeing it must do to Kageyama’s.

“It was just—too much,” Kageyama says, swallowing. “But after last night, suddenly I just… I need to do something.”

“Why last night?” Hinata asks. He’d sent the guy into a freaking panic attack, of all things. Last night had been terrible.

“Because—you asked if I’m scared,” Kageyama reminds him. Hinata wants to apologize again, but the look on the other man’s face stops him. He’s not angry, he’s not upset—he’s confused. “And I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m scared of, but… it’s not this.” He runs a hand over the busted shell of a car. “So the least I can do is treat him right.”

Ah. Hinata tries to stop himself from grinning, from looking totally excited, but he doesn’t quite manage it. “Nice. So, when do we start?”

Kageyama just _looks_ at him. “You don’t even know where the radiator is.”

“Yeah, but I can be moral support!” Hinata chirps.

“Fuck that,” the other man says.

 _“Kageyama,”_ Hinata starts to whine, but the mechanic picks up a wrench and pops the hood of the car. It pries open with a distressing shriek of metal on metal that makes Hinata wince and Kageyama set his jaw. He points the wrench at Hinata and beckons him closer.

“Get over here. If you want to stand around being loud and annoying, you can at least learn something.”

*

“Hinata—Hinata, would you—put the fucking screwdriver down, you’re going to stab yourself in the face—” Kageyama reaches out to snatch the offending tool out of Hinata’s hands, and Hinata sulks. Kageyama has told him not to touch the wrenches (because he _organizes them)_. They make for far better mic stand-ins than screwdrivers, but he has to make do with what he is given.

“That was the best part,” he says, and he’s _not_ pouting, not at all. He’s been dancing around the garage for the past half hour, after Kageyama had finally given in and let him plug his phone into one of the cars with a working sound system, cranking the stereo volume loud enough to flood the lot.

“There is no best part in that song,” Kageyama says offhandedly. He’s already turned back to bury himself under the hood of his car. “You have shit taste in music, unsurprisingly.”  

“I do _not_ ,” Hinata yelps. He’d put on a great album—it’s loud and fun and kind of obscene, and he knows every word. “You don’t even listen to _music,_ what would you know?”

“I listen to music,” Kageyama tells him. “Just not when you’re around because I need to be able to hear you to make sure you’re still alive.”

“You act like I’m a little kid,” Hinata says. “I don’t need you to babysit me.”

Kageyama levels him with an impassive stare.

“Don’t bring up the power saw again,” Hinata says quickly, before he can even open his mouth. “You were the one who told me to hand it to you.”

“Not while it was _on,”_ Kageyama says, rolling his eyes. He turns back to the car, but Hinata swears he is almost smiling. That’s a pretty good sign, because Hinata had nearly cut off his own arm and narrowly missed Kageyama’s jugular in that incident, and he had been made to sit in one of the other cars with strict instructions not to move for the rest of the night. In retrospect, it’s pretty hilarious.

They’ve been at it every night since Kageyama had first brought his car back to the garage. They haven’t stopped with Hinata’s practice runs every night, so now the schedule goes like this: meet at the garage around midnight, run trials for the next four hours, and then come back to the shop to work on Kageyama’s car until the sun started to lighten the sky. That’s about when people start filtering into work, and Kageyama always has the cover back over the car by that time. Hinata doesn’t even think anyone else has seen it, besides the two of them. He’s not sure why Kageyama has entrusted him with what he supposes is The Secret—nor is he sure why he doesn’t want anyone else to know. He doesn’t push him.

He doesn’t push because he doesn’t want to set Kageyama off again, and he’s tried his luck a few too many times with the man. He doesn’t want it to run out. Because, though he never would have believed it a few weeks ago when they’d first met, hanging out with Kageyama is… fun. The constant arguing and insult fests are fun. Hopping between circuits every night, the handful of times they’ve nearly been caught by the cops, watching his times get shorter millisecond by millisecond, has been fun. Getting quizzed on car parts, learning to tell the difference between (non-electrical) tools so he can put them in Kageyama’s waiting, outstretched hand without hesitation—it’s been really fun.

He grins. Right now, this music thing, this is fun. “Alright, Kageyama—what kind of music do you listen to?”

Kageyama sighs. Not for the first time, Hinata wonders if he isn’t getting tired of having an excitable and fairly useless observer hanging around all the time, but he’s pretty sure Kageyama would have just told him to get lost if that were the case. His theory is further proven correct when, instead of ignoring him, Kageyama pulls out his phone, scrolling through it, before heading over to plug it into the audio jack. He hits play.

It starts off with one, single, electric guitar, shredding out through the night air. Kageyama walks back to the car, turning his wrench over in one hand, spinning it easily with his long fingers until the grey metal is whirling nearly as fast as the blistering guitar riff. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Hinata when he runs his other hand slowly over the side of the car as he moves along it back to the front, but he himself seems unaware he’s doing it.

The drums kick in, heavy and rhythmic, pounding on the downbeat. Kageyama settles himself back in front of the car and grips the raised hood with both hands as he bends low, low, low over the engine, and his back curves into an arch that Hinata can only describe as fucking _sinful_ as his muscles shift under his thin undershirt.

Hinata glances down at his own crotch, willing his dick to calm the fuck down, thank you very much.

“Told you,” he hears Kageyama say, and snaps his attention back upward. The dark-haired man is watching him, peering back at Hinata under one of his outstretched arms. His hair is falling into his eyes, and he looks smug as hell.

“Told me what?” Hinata asks stubbornly, absolutely refusing to show how affected he is.

“You know what,” Kageyama snorts. “This is real music.”

“Whatever,” Hinata says. “It’s fine for old people, I guess.”

No way in hell is he going to admit how good Kageyama looks, somehow, bent over that car—dirty and sweaty from the hard work, muscles flexing as he tightens a screw, music from a bygone era acting as his backdrop.

“Suit yourself,” Kageyama shrugs, turning back to his work. “But if you try to change it, I’ll lock you in my trunk.”

The Dark Horse is so, so close to being circuit ready. Hinata may not know as much about cars as the next person (he knows a little more, now), but he is absolutely certain that Kageyama has done an amazing job. Beyond amazing. Hinata’s fairly sure his vocabulary isn’t expansive enough to supply words for how incredible it is to see the car in nearly pristine condition again.

His own orange Mazda is back up to speed and, Hinata can freely admit, running better than ever. He knows he’s pulling faster times not just due to his own improvement, but also thanks to Kageyama’s obsessive tinkering with the car, determined to push its limits farther, crank its performance up higher. It makes Hinata feel warm and satisfied inside—he knows Kageyama would make sure any car he worked on was in peak condition, but it feels different when he looks at the Mazda, a telltale glint in his eye that means he’s just thought of another way to make it run a little faster, handle a little better. Hinata’s not sure if it’s because Kageyama is _his_ mechanic, or just his friend. He likes both options.  

There comes a day when Kageyama, staring down at the engine of the Challenger, tells Hinata, “Get behind the wheel.”

“Huh?” Hinata asks.

“Start him up,” Kageyama clarifies. “I need to see something.”

Hinata stands there frozen for a whole two seconds before scrambling to the side of the car and plunking himself down in the driver’s seat. For a second, he’s a bit overwhelmed. This is not just any car—this is _the_ car, the one that started everything for him, the once undefeated champion. Kageyama’s car. The leather seat is cool and smooth, the material a glossy, inky black, now that Kageyama has restored it. The wheel is thicker than his own, feels sturdy under his hands.

“Oy,” he hears Kageyama call out. “You know how to start a car, right?”

“Sorry!” Hinata calls back, and (with fingers that are maybe, slightly, shaking) turns the key in the ignition.

The car thunders to life with a low roar that sends shivers down his spine. He can feel that engine rumbling through his body, he wants to let the sound and feel of it ease into him and take him away.

“Give it a little gas!” Kageyama shouts over the noise, and Hinata presses down gently on the pedal. The engine revs, impatient, irritable to still be in park.

“Give me more!” he hears Kageyama yell. Hinata briefly wonders if he is being tested, before he presses down further and now the car blazes to life, angry and ready to _go._ He understands completely.

The hood comes slamming down and he lets off the gas as Kageyama walks over to his side of the car. Hinata looks up at him, hands still clasped around the wheel. Their eyes meet. The dark-haired man leans down, through the window, bending so close Hinata can smell the sweat on him. His mouth is right next to Hinata’s ear when he murmurs into it, so he can still hear Kageyama over the growl of the motor.

_“He’s ready.”_

He may as well be talking about Hinata, who is so helplessly, incredibly hot for him right now that all he can do when Kageyama pulls back is stare at him in a daze. He finally swallows, and asks, “It’s done?”

Kageyama actually grins at him. “Yeah,” he says, reaching in to ruffle Hinata’s hair. The engine is loud enough that he doesn’t hear the whine that escapes Hinata’s throat. “Yeah, we did it.”

 _We_ did it.

The sun is just coming up on the horizon, and Hinata can’t stop himself from grinning back.

*

The tournament circuit is due to start soon. Hinata has been working his ass off, his times are miles ahead of where he was when he started out with Kageyama, he is completely ready to race with the rest of Karasuno and he plans to tell Daichi as much.

What he is not expecting is for the grumbly putter of a classic motorcycle to pull their attention one night as he finishes one of his runs. He looks in his rearview mirror to see it’s Daichi approaching on his bike, with Suga riding behind him, arms around his middle. He pulls up alongside Hinata’s car, his expression appraising.

“Not bad, Hinata,” Daichi says, and Hinata’s face splits into a grin at the praise.

“Yeah?” he asks, a bit too excited, and Kageyama tugs on his hair.

“You act like I never say you did good,” he gripes.

“You don’t!”

“Alright, alright,” Daichi cuts in. He looks past Hinata, at Kageyama in the seat next to him. “Think he’s ready to race?”

Hinata swivels his head to stare at Kageyama. Kageyama rubs his mouth with his hand, not looking at either of them for a long moment. Then, he lifts his head to lock eyes with Hinata.

“Yeah,” he says.

Daichi nods, and Hinata feels happy, happy like he’s never felt before, like someone is holding up a magnifying glass to the emotions running through him.

“The first race of the tournament is right around the corner,” Suga muses, “but it would be good to get him out there…”

“Asahi, Hinata, and Tsukishima…” Daichi mulls it over. “Or you, Suga.”

“I’ll race,” Kageyama suddenly says.

“Or Kageyama—what?” Daichi stops short. “What?”

 _“What?”_ Hinata echoes.

“I’ll race,” Kageyama says again. “I know you both know what I—what we’ve been working on. We finished.”

“We knew,” Suga confirms.

“You haven’t raced in three years,” Daichi says sternly.

Kageyama blinks at him. “You don’t think I’ll be good anymore?”

Daichi stares him down. Then he gives a slight smile. “I think you’ll probably still put everyone else to shame.”

Kageyama’s cheeks color the slightest bit red.

“Tobio…” Suga says gently. He is all seriousness. “It’s going to be a blind rally.”

Hinata frowns, wondering why Suga felt like he had to point that out—they all know the order of tournament events. But Kageyama just nods.

Daichi seems to be considering. Finally he says, “Alright. We’ll use our new line-up, then. Tsukishima, Hinata, Kageyama.”

“Who’ll—” Hinata starts to say, and Daichi reaches through the window and lands a reassuring hand on top of his head.

“I’ll navigate for Kageyama,” he says.

Hinata feels relief flood him. He’d trust any of his team to do it, but for their first race—for Kageyama’s first time on the track in over three years—he couldn’t imagine anyone he’d rather have sitting in the passenger seat with Kageyama than Daichi.

“Okay,” Kageyama says, before Hinata can say another word—of thanks? Exultation? He’s not even sure. Daichi and Suga head out with a wave, and then it’s just the two of them, alone on the street. Hinata stares at Kageyama. “What are you looking at?”

Slowly, Hinata begins to smile. Kageyama groans.

“Kageyama…”

“Don’t give me that look.”

“I’m not giving you a look, I’m just smiling!”

“That’s a _look,_ dumbass.”

Hinata punches him in the arm and Kageyama tries to kick at him from across the seat.

“Look, let’s go back to the shop, okay?” Kageyama requests. “I want to look him over one more time.”

Hinata puts his car in drive and they head back. He’s still smiling.

It’s still dark when they get back, but it won’t be for long. The sun will be up soon, which will be their cue to head home for a few hours and get some much needed sleep. Kageyama is already quiet next to him.

Hinata parks the Mazda in an empty space and takes a moment to finally catch his breath as Kageyama hops out. He’s going to race. He’s going to race as part of a crew, one that asked him to join, that wants him there. And he impressed Kageyama (even if Kageyama will never admit it). He scrunches down in his seat, smiling uncontrollably.

There’s a clatter from somewhere behind him and he glances in his rearview mirror. Kageyama has dropped a wrench on the floor and Hinata is about to joke about his carelessness when he realizes that something is not right. The other man is standing over his car, hands gripping the side too tight, head bent low. His shoulders are up around his ears and shaking, slightly.

Hinata throws his car door open and is at his side in seconds. “Kageyama,” he says, voice soft.

“I’m—I’m fine—” Kageyama tries to say.

“Come here.” Hinata pulls on the taller man’s arm, moving him back, until they somehow end up sitting on the floor, Hinata facing Kageyama as he leans back against the black car. Kageyama’s hands go to his dark hair, clenching painfully tight, so Hinata tugs them gently away and doesn’t let go.

“Hey,” he says. “Let Suga race. We’ve got all year.”

Kageyama shakes his head, but doesn’t look up.

Hinata tilts his head. His next words come surprisingly easily. “Then I won’t race.”

“Idiot,” Kageyama says finally. “You need the experience. And I _want_ to. It’s just—”

When he doesn't continue, Hinata asks, “Why did Suga say that? About it being a blind rally?” Kageyama stiffens. “Never mind, you don’t have to talk about it if—”

“My last race was a blind rally.”

“Oh.” Hinata hadn’t known. He hadn’t known enough about racing at that point—just knew he liked the cars and the life and wanted to ride, to fly like they did.

Blind rallies were exciting—but they were also dangerous. Drivers were set on an unfamiliar circuit, the path undisclosed until right before the starting time when the route was detailed for the navigator, who would work closely with the driver to guide them through the track. Each car in the lineup raced from one checkpoint to the next, at which point the next car would receive the signal to start, until the last car raced to the finish line. Any lapse in communication or hesitation on the part of the driver or navigator could and frequently did spell disaster. Blind rallies were the ultimate test of skill and teamwork.

“It started off fine,” Kageyama mumbles. Hinata keeps silent as he starts to talk. “I was in the lead. I had a clear lead. But my—my navigator read a turn wrong. I lost time and second place passed me. I was… pissed.”

Hinata can only imagine. He doesn’t say anything, though, just lets Kageyama continue.

“I could have—I should have waited for the race to finish. But I called him out. I mean, I knew I could overtake the other car again easily, so I wasn’t worried. I was just mad. I kind of always was—my crew didn’t like me very much.”

“I didn’t know you were part of a crew, back then,” Hinata says, surprised.

“Not a lot of people did,” Kageyama tells him. “The manager put me in most of the races. And I won them. But…”

“You were better than them,” Hinata points out. Kageyama shrugs.

“Anyway, I called him out. And we argued. And he… he missed the next turn.”

Hinata’s eyes widen. “That’s why you crashed?”

Kageyama takes a deep breath. “I could have corrected for it, probably. But I hit another car. Spun out and hit a divider. I got the full force of the crash, it smashed my side in and…” His hands tighten around Hinata’s. “I didn’t… I was awake, the whole time, until they got me to the hospital.”

Horrified, Hinata can only stare at him. Thinking of the scar.

“I could hear them saying I might not… and I didn’t want to pass out because I thought maybe I wouldn’t wake up, but it fucking hurt, it _hurt—_ and eventually they put me under, and when I woke up I was—it hurt and I was alone and—”

Hinata flings himself at him, throwing his arms around his neck and clinging tight. He thinks he may cause Kageyama to knock the back of his head on the car door but the other man doesn’t protest or get mad.

“It’s not your fault,” Hinata whispers fiercely. “It is _not_ your fault.”

Kageyama awkwardly raises an arm and pats him on the back, almost like he’s trying to comfort Hinata. “I don’t want to make you all hate me like that.”

“We won’t, idiot,” Hinata vows. “We like you. So trust us.”

“I’m still an asshole.”

“No, you’re Kageyama,” Hinata tells him. He pulls back to flick the dark-haired man on the forehead. “Besides, you’re _my_ asshole.”

Kageyama stares at him, his lips parting slightly in surprise, and Hinata feels his face getting hot.

“I m-mean—because you’re my mechanic! Obviously,” he stammers. Holy shit, he’s so transparent.

“Obviously,” Kageyama nods.

“Except,” Hinata amends, “I guess if you start driving… then they’ll have to find me a new one…”

“No, they won’t,” Kageyama says. “I’m still going to be yours.”

Now it is Hinata’s turn to stare. Unlike him, Kageyama does not go red, or even seem to register what he’s just implied. Instead, he follows it up with,

“Are you going to sit on me all day or what?”

Hinata splutters. “You jerk! I was trying to help!”

He thinks the sound Kageyama makes might be a laugh. The other man doesn’t try to move him, either.

“I’m going to win again,” Kageyama says, and Hinata feels like he’s lighting up all over.

 _“We’re_ going to win,” he vows, and they both grin.

They are going to take it all.

*

Kageyama seems nothing but determined after that night. The days leading up to the race are tense, but exciting. Tsukishima, Kageyama, and Hinata run timed laps for hours on end, switching up circuits, tracks, paths every night under supervision by the older members of the crew. They quickly learn to fear Tanaka and Noya’s routes, which might be more accurately called death traps.

When the night of the race finally arrives, Hinata feels nothing but confidence. Well, confidence and a little bit like he has to puke, but that’s normal. They don’t meet at the garage but go straight to the meet-up—an abandoned parking garage, the spot designated by the tournament organizers for teams to rendezvous before the race.

It’s a place for competitors to posture, to pose and strut, headlamps too bright off the gray concrete walls, music too loud in the confined space, the sounds and lights clashing with each other before the real fight even begins. Hinata loves it. He breathes deep when he steps out of the car, the smell of gasoline and cool midnight air through the cut out windows already going to his head.

His own crew is there, already waiting. Tanaka claps him on the back so hard he almost has to take a knee, and Ennoshita asks him calmly to “Please try not to injure one of our drivers right before the race.” Noya slings an arm around his shoulders, grinning broadly. Daichi, Suga, and Asahi sit on the hood of Asahi’s car, laughing at them.

“Fashionably late?” Suga jokes, and Hinata at least has the good grace to look sheepish.

“I’m surprised he managed to remember what time the race starts,” says a bored voice, and he turns to see Tsukishima, in his white Suzuki. Typically, he looks unexcited and unruffled—he hasn’t even gotten out of his car. In the passenger seat next to him, Yamaguchi waves at Hinata.

“No way I’d forget, Suzukishima,” Hinata says, and Tsukishima’s nose wrinkles.

“Well, that’s one mystery solved,” Daichi says.

Hinata is about to ask him what he means, when it hits him. _Kageyama isn’t there._ He feels, at first, a new wave of nausea hit him—not discomfort at being down a racer, but at the fear that they have pushed too far, that Kageyama is on his own somewhere and afraid—

There is a rumble of an engine. One Hinata recognizes. One they all recognize.

The crowd, all the people gathered there, part for the pitch black Challenger as it prowls its way through their midst. It drives slow, because the onlookers want to see for themselves, because they deserve to catch a glimpse of the return, so that it won’t be a rumor but cold hard fact that springs out of that night:

The Dark Horse rides again.

Hinata watches it pull in next to the rest of their crew and nervously tugs on the driver’s gloves he wears. He feels hotter than he had seconds before, and his palms are starting to sweat.

The driver’s side door opens and Kageyama steps out. He doesn’t pay the crowd any attention.

Hinata swallows hard. Kageyama is wearing all black—black jeans that make his long legs seem even longer, black t-shirt that shows off the toned muscles of his arms, black fingerless gloves that he pulls on without noticing how Hinata stares as he slides his fingers through the openings. He flexes his hand like he’s remembering how it feels.

Then he looks over, straight at Hinata.

“Hey,” Hinata says, and if he sounds winded, it’s only because of how excited he is to _race,_ that’s it, that’s all.

Kageyama’s eyes narrow. “You thought I wasn’t going to show up.”

It’s uncanny how well he can read Hinata. “No!” Hinata yelps. “I mean, you were the last one here, so I thought maybe you chickened out!”

Eyes flashing, Kageyama pushes away from his car to bear down on Hinata. Hinata squeaks and backs up, until his back is pressed to his orange car door. “Just kidding, just kidding, just kidding—”

Kageyama slams his hands against the sides of the car, caging him in. “When I say I’m gonna do something,” he growls, “I do it.”

Hinata nods furiously, eyes wide.

“Hey, Dark Horse—” someone calls from behind Kageyama. The dark-haired man doesn’t look away from Hinata, but he does seem annoyed that his spree of terror has been interrupted.

“What?” he snaps.

“Are you really racing tonight? With them?”

Kageyama pulls away to finally level a glare at the other racers. “Yeah. And I’m going to win.”

Hinata ducks under his arm. _“We’re_ gonna win,” he says, and he’s not bullshitting, he’s not posturing. He’s sure of it. Next to him, Kageyama smirks.

“You two are an embarrassment,” Tsukishima says blandly behind them.

“Racers!” The voice is loud, echoing around the parking garage through a megaphone. “Time!”

Hinata slides back behind the wheel, nerves buzzing. A hand slams down onto his window frame. Kageyama is standing over his car—he’s not looking at Hinata, but he says, “Remember to watch your exit speed coming out of curves.”

“I know,” Hinata says.

“Don’t overcorrect every time you drift, like, the slightest bit off course, it doesn’t do you any good.”

“I _know,”_ Hinata rolls his eyes.

“And—”

_“Kageyama.”_

“—I’ll see you. After.” Kageyama almost glances at him, almost. Instead, he curls his gloved hand into a fist and holds it up.

Hinata bumps it with his own. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

Kageyama nods and walks off, and Hinata is left feeling like there is not enough oxygen in the world for him to breathe properly. He watches Kageyama’s back as he pulls open the door of his car and notices that there’s not a single trace of his shoulders shaking, he’s not even rigid. He looks, if anything, relaxed. It’s been over three years since Kageyama was in a race. But he doesn’t seem nervous, not at all.

His view is blocked when Suga leans into the window, smiling. “Ready?” he asks. He grins wider when Hinata nods and hurries around to hop in the passenger seat. Asahi is navigating for Tsukishima and Daichi is already climbing in next to Kageyama.

They follow riders on motorcycles to their starting point. Hinata can see the checkpoint where Tsukishima will race to—once he crosses it, it will be Hinata’s turn to drive.

Before their guide leaves, he and Suga are each given headsets. Hinata fits his on and hears a crackle on the other end.

“Hello?” he asks loudly, tapping the mic. There are groans from the other end.

“Well, at least we know it’s working,” he hears Daichi say.

Tsukishima sighs. “I should have known this would be bad for my sense of hearing.”

“I didn’t know if they were on or not!” Hinata hisses, remembering to keep his voice down at the last second.

“Dumbass,” Kageyama says, snorting. It doesn’t really sound like an insult.

“You’re the dumbass,” Hinata retaliates.

“Ugh,” Tsukishima says, and his eye roll is audible.

Suddenly, Suga’s phone buzzes. He opens a link to an app, bringing up a map on the screen, routes highlighted—the track they’ll be running.

“Car one, set your mark,” comes a distorted voice over the line. They all go quiet, except for Daichi, who says,

“Give them hell, Tsukishima.”

Tsukishima is quiet, but even Hinata can sense the anticipation. He’s not at the starting line to see the flag drop. But suddenly, he hears the howl of an engine. The race has started.

He’s always thought it strangely dissonant, how quiet rallies are, until the action arrives. All he can hear is the distant noise of Tsukishima’s car over the headset, and Asahi tersely laying out instructions, upcoming turns, degree of turn, letting him know about cars trying to pass. They won’t have much luck—the big white Suzuki is a bully on the road, and Tsukishima’s blocking is unparalleled.

“We’re leading,” Asahi says, and then, “Hinata!”

Suga rests a hand on his shoulder briefly, and Hinata breathes, just breathes. He glances in his rearview.

Bright white headlights swerve into view—there are two cars directly behind the Suzuki but it is somehow keeping _both_ of them from passing him on the straightaway as he flies down the road toward the checkpoint.

“Set,” Suga says.

Tsukishima blasts over the markers.

Hinata floors it, pedal hitting upholstery as soon as he’s clear, tires pealing as the car explodes forward. He’s got less than a half a second lead time on the other racers—he knows he needs to make the most of it.

Suga’s voice is in his ear, guiding him. Hinata doesn’t even think, just follows. At the back of his mind, he realizes that Suga is very, very good at this—giving him directions right when they are needed, not too late that they take him by surprise or rushing them so Hinata can’t properly focus on his current move. Hinata almost feels as though he’s already familiar with the route—of course he’s driven it before, but not in the exact order of turns laid out on the app Suga is reading.

They hit a tunnel and suddenly the sound of the engines are echoed and magnified, pressing in on them. One of the cars behind him veers off down a different tunnel, on the wrong side of the road.

“What the hell—” Hinata starts to say, and Suga swears, a rarity.

“He’s cutting the route,” the older man says tersely.

“You can’t _do_ that,” Hinata tries to say.

“The tunnels merge again,” Suga tells him. “They won’t be able to tell. Hinata, you’ll have to pass him.”

Hinata grips the wheel tight. “Easy.”

His car is like a flickering flame lighting up the road—this is the best it’s ever handled in a race, and he knows who to thank. He _will_ thank him, after this is done, but right now he can’t focus on that. The best he can do is reach the checkpoint first, give Kageyama the lead, get them the win.

In front of them, Hinata sees another car swerve into view—farther ahead but still within reach. Then the tunnel is ending and they come screaming out of its mouth, focused on the target ahead. A glance in his rearview mirror shows the racers behind him falling away, they can’t keep up. His fight is with this one person (cheater) in his sights.

Hinata is the better driver, but distance matters, and the asshole in front of him covered a lot of ground in the shorter tunnel. The Mazda rips through two curves, and his training is paying off—his pace stays steady, he doesn’t lose any speed, and now he’s right on the heels of first place.

“Checkpoint right after the hairpin,” Suga warns.  

Not a lot of space to deal with. That’s fine—Hinata likes pressure. And he’s done this before.

He sees the turn coming up and starts to veer, making as if to pass on the outside—the driver in front of him tries to block him—and he guns it, right into the curve, whipping his car sideways into a brutal drift that puts him parallel to the track. He doesn’t even need to straighten out as he clears the turn, he just shoots forward like a bullet, passing the other car and leaving it in his dust.

“KAGEYAMA!” Suga shouts.

This time, Hinata’s car does not falter, does not lose speed. He bears down on the checkpoint, a thousand feet, five hundred, _two hundred_ —he rockets across it and yanks his wheel around, skidding to a stop, throwing his upper body out of the window of his car to yell, to just holler into the night as he watches the Dark Horse gallop forward.  

He stares after it for a moment before realizing—he has to see Kageyama cross the finish line, he needs to _be there._

He pulls himself back into the vehicle and puts the car in reverse.

Suga covers the microphone with his hand. “What are you doing?”

“They’re gonna loop the track, right?” Hinata asks, doing the same. He can hear Daichi’s clear voice ringing out directions in the headset. “It’ll finish where it started.”

He throws his arm over the seat, craning his neck to look behind him as he guns it backwards, before yanking the wheel hard to spin the car 180 degrees, zooming back the way he came past the other racers.

This time, there are no restrictions on him, and he knows these roads. He cuts through alleys and side streets, before fishtailing out onto the main road, flying up an onramp to get onto an overpass, where he can see the track below. The crowd has gathered there. He tosses his headset on the seat as he gets out and practically throws himself at the highway guardrail, leaning over it far more than is safe. He feels rather than sees Suga run up beside him.

And then, he sees headlights.

“Suga!” he yelps, arm shooting out to grab onto the other man’s shoulder reflexively.

It’s tension and excitement and exhilaration all at once as he watches Kageyama’s black car roar down the last stretch of road before the finish line. He’s in the lead—of course—there’s no other place he could possibly be.

“That’s it!” Suga shouts next to Hinata. “That’s it, that’s it!”

The Dark Horse finishes first, crossing the finish line to tumultuous cheers and screams. It slows to a stop and the driver’s side door opens. Kageyama steps out.

His eyes hold a fire in them. Hinata sucks in a breath as he looks at him, because even from up above he can see the change, can see what racing and _winning_ again has done to him.

Hinata thinks for a moment that Kageyama is going to get swallowed by the crowd, but Daichi is there, pushing people back as he somehow convinces Kageyama to get up on top of the car, coaxing him into standing on the hood.

Kageyama climbs up and he’s stoic, stone-faced as usual, but it’s alright—Hinata is grinning broad enough for the both of them. And then he turns, and somehow, even though there’s no reason his gaze should tilt upward, it does—and he sees Hinata, standing there at the top of the overpass, looking down at him.

Their eyes lock. Hinata raises his hands, palms out, stretched toward Kageyama. Then he curls them into fists and pumps them high into the air, triumphant and proud. Kageyama stares at him. And then, the corner of his mouth quirks upward and he mirrors the gesture, jamming one fist upward and holding it aloft.

Maybe it’s a bit much for just their first win, their first race, but everyone watching knows the true meaning behind it.

Kageyama is standing there above them all, tall and proud and victorious. And everyone knows that the champion is back.

*

The rest of Karasuno wants to celebrate, and Noya and Tanaka exuberantly promise that there will definitely be hard liquor provided. Tsukishima seems to take this as his cue to cut out early, Yamaguchi in tow. The others manage to get away from the bystander crowd much sooner than Hinata and Kageyama, and by the time they get back to the shop the garage is lit up like it’s midday, music blaring loud. They drive through the back to their usual spot in the outdoor lot.

Hinata sang along to his music at the top of his lungs, all the way back to the shop. He _won something—_ and even if it wasn’t a solo race, somehow, this feels a bit bigger than that. He likes it better this way.

There’s also the fact that Kageyama was a part of it. The Challenger followed behind him all the way home, and it was almost like he could feel Kageyama’s eyes on him the entire time—even if he knows they were just directed at the road ahead, like always. The little, pleasant shivers he got running up and down his spine whenever he glanced back in the mirror were good all the same.

Kageyama is pulling up next to him now, their cars side by side, like they have been for the past few weeks. He makes no move to get out and Hinata feels himself getting a bit nervous. He’s not sure what to say—congratulations? It seems kind of weird, after everything, and besides, they’d won together. Good job? No, way too formal.

He climbs out of his car, arranging one of the grey tarp covers over it more carefully than is strictly necessary to buy himself some time. He figures either he’ll say something or he’ll just stand there staring at Kageyama in awe. It’s a fifty-fifty shot, he’ll take whatever he gets.

He walks over to Kageyama’s car and Kageyama rolls his window down, one hand still on the wheel, and turns to look at him. And suddenly, Hinata is squeaking out, “Thank you for the race!” and that’s… not really one of the choices he’d had on the table, but he finds he doesn’t regret saying it.

Kageyama frowns at him. “What? Why are you thanking me?”

“Because—” Hinata gulps in air, because there are all these thoughts and feelings flying around inside him. So he looks at the ground, at his feet, at the side window of the Dodge, at the tools on the wall, anywhere but Kageyama, and just starts talking. “Because you didn’t have to. You didn’t have to race today, or next week, or ever again, but you raced with me the first time I was ever part of a real crew. And it’s my first win ever. And you spent the past—however many weeks helping me out, and letting me bug you, and working on my car—and my _car,_ Kageyama, it—it’s never felt like that, driving it before—”

“Did it feel good?” Kageyama asks.

Hinata’s eyes snap to his face. Kageyama is staring at him, intensely, his blue eyes fixed on Hinata’s face.

 _“Yes,”_ Hinata breathes. “It felt _so_ good.”

Kageyama doesn’t, quite, respond. Instead, he reaches up, reaches out and puts a hand on top of Hinata’s head, ruffling orange strands with his fingers. Then he pushes his hand through Hinata’s hair and down, until it’s resting on the back of Hinata’s neck. And he grips the window sill with his other hand, pulling himself out of his seat until his head and shoulders are outside the car.

And then he kisses Hinata.

Hinata stands there, frozen, until he pulls away, settling back down into his seat. Kageyama taps his fingers on the wheel. Hinata just gapes at him, wordlessly.

“Okay,” Kageyama says. “My bad, I thought you were—”

He cuts off with an “mmph,” when Hinata thrusts his upper half through the car window to kiss him again.

His feet dangle off the ground, which is fitting, because he feels like he’s floating. Kageyama threads a hand back into his hair as their lips come together, and he kisses soft and measured and slow. It’s not at all what Hinata was expecting, or maybe it is, considering how long he’s been watching Kageyama, thinking about all the ways he might kiss and touch and let Hinata return the favor.

When Hinata pulls back, he knows his cheeks are burning. To his credit, Kageyama doesn’t say a word about it. Instead, he just guides Hinata gently back out the window until his feet are on the ground once again, and then he unlocks the door.

Hinata yanks it open so fast he nearly knocks himself over, before scrambling in on top of Kageyama with his legs on either side of the other man’s lap, hands in his shirt, in his hair, whatever he can grab onto as fast as he can get to it. He crushes his lips to Kageyama’s and can hear him laughing that quiet almost-laugh that sounds more like he’s just expelling air than anything else.

“Why are you laughing?” he asks, depositing the words basically into Kageyama’s mouth. The other man pushes his face away with one hand.

“Because you’re impatient.”

Impatient doesn’t even begin to cover it. Hinata squirms away from his hand and leans in again, but Kageyama pushes him away one more time. He’s about to complain when the dark-haired man bites at the strap on his gloves, pulling them undone with his teeth so he can get them off. He doesn’t take his eyes off Hinata’s the entire time, and Hinata feels heat pooling low in his stomach.

Once the gloves are off, Kageyama rests his bare hands on the tops of Hinata’s legs. They’re hot, from the adrenaline, the high of racing, and when he slides them up to Hinata’s waist to pull him closer it makes Hinata bite his bottom lip. He leans in again and this time he’s not rebuffed—instead, he feels warm palms against his cheeks as Kageyama cups his face lightly in both hands, before meeting him halfway, brushing his lips across Hinata’s, kissing the corner of his mouth before touching the tip of his tongue to Hinata’s bottom lip. Hinata lets his lips part and Kageyama slips inside of him, wet and hot, and Hinata has a dawning realization.

Kageyama is a _good_ kisser, and Hinata wants to find out what other types of things he might be good at, immediately.

He pulls back, tugging his hoodie over his head because it (he) is definitely way too hot to be wearing it now. It is not the easiest clothing removal operation of all time. He punches the roof of the car and slams an elbow into the doorframe and by the time he gets it off his hair is a mess and his shirt is halfway rucked up his body and he’s panting for breath—and Kageyama stares up at him and says, _“God,_ Hinata,” before he rubs his palms all the way up Hinata’s back from his waist to the top of his spine and pulls Hinata’s shirt off, too.

“That’s kind of—better—” Hinata says, and then finds himself with his back pressed against the wheel of the car as Kageyama leans forward in his seat and puts his lips to work on other parts of Hinata’s body. They trace a path over Hinata’s collarbone, his throat, his tongue wets the dip where his shoulder curves up to his neck before he bites it, sinking his teeth into the sensitive flesh, and Hinata shudders all the way down to his toes. His fingers twitch in Kageyama’s hair and he moans when Kageyama runs his tongue high up the side of his neck, before pulling his earlobe into his mouth and sucking on it.

It feels so good, every little thing feels so impossibly good, because he’s been waiting for it, wanting it, for so long. Since he first laid eyes on the mechanic ( _his_ mechanic), yeah, but it was superficial then. Now he’s wanted in so many different ways. Wanting to prove himself through that first week of irritation. Wanting to understand, to help however he could, after the morning he’d walked Kageyama back home. Wanting to watch as a beaten up shell of a car became a dark thing of beauty. Wanting to win, for Kageyama, _with_ Kageyama. He’s wanted a lot of things.

Right now, though—Kageyama brushes his hands down Hinata’s bare chest, thumbs flicking over his pointed, pink nipples, and Hinata groans out, “I want you, _now.”_

Kageyama says, “Yeah, I know.”

There’s something in the smug tone of his voice that makes Hinata stutter out, “How long have you known?”

Kageyama kisses him again, teeth grazing his bottom lip. “A _while.”_

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Hinata asks in disbelief.

“You didn’t need any distractions,” Kageyama murmurs, and his certainty is at once infuriating and arousing as hell. “Plus, then I started to fix up my car, and your own needed _enough_ work—”

“My car has had your hands on it more in a single day than I have in six weeks,” Hinata growls.

“I know,” Kageyama says again. He sounds possibly apologetic. “At least it gave me a lot of time to think.”

“About what?” Hinata asks.

Kageyama ducks his head, running his tongue over one of Hinata’s nipples, and Hinata’s hips jerk. “I kind of imagined…”

“What?” Hinata pants.

Blue eyes flick upward to look at his face. “I liked to imagine I had my hands on you. While I worked on it.”

Hinata gasps. He feels himself getting lightheaded, as all and any blood he has in his body seems to shoot directly to his cock. It’s like a dam has burst, he shoves Kageyama back into the seat so he can kiss him hungrily, hips rutting forward, and he can feel Kageyama through his own thin pants—there’s way too much fabric in the way, in general, so he starts to work on the issue, tugging Kageyama’s shirt off over his head. Finally, _fucking finally,_ there is nothing in between him and those abs, and he runs his fingers over every inch of them, trailing them up and down Kageyama’s stomach and chest.

He traces over the long scar, too, running his knuckles gently, reverently, over the slightly raised skin, and Kageyama begins to shiver.

“Kageyama,” he whispers. “Did you come on my car?”

Kageyama’s lips still against his own. “…No.”

“What did you—”

“I may have jerked off in the driver’s seat, okay—just once—”

Hinata flicks open the button on Kageyama’s jeans, tugging them open so he can get a hand down the other man’s pants. Kageyama’s head falls back against the seat behind him as Hinata begins to palm him through his boxers.

“You can jerk off in my car any time you want,” Hinata tells him earnestly.

“Thanks,” Kageyama gasps out. “You can jerk me off in my car any time you want.”

“Working on it.”

Big hands tug at the shorts on his hips, and Hinata raises up, helping Kageyama to pull them down until they’re sliding off of him, his underwear going with them. It’s a terrible angle, it takes work to get them shucked off his legs completely, but then he’s completely naked on top of Kageyama, and Kageyama guides his hips down until their cocks are pressing together with only the thin fabric of Kageyama’s boxers separating them. Kageyama rocks his hips up and pulls Hinata against him and it’s so incredible that Hinata can’t stop himself from crying out.

Kageyama covers his mouth with one hand.

“No one can hear—” Hinata starts to protest, but Kageyama shakes his head. He reaches around Hinata and turns the key in the ignition, rolling up the windows before shutting the car off again. The noise from outside reduces dramatically. Hinata is about to say that there’s no way anybody inside could have heard him, but Kageyama shifts their hips together again and he lets out another shaking groan.

“They would hear,” Kageyama says. “I’m going to make you scream so _loud.”_

This is when it finally clicks that Kageyama is absolutely, definitely going to fuck him into incoherency in the driver’s seat of his legendary car, and that’s when Hinata really starts to move.

He braces his hands on Kageyama’s shoulders and rolls up into him, pressing hard, and Kageyama hisses and pushes his boxers the rest of the way down. Kageyama’s cock is big, like the rest of him, dripping pre-come, and Hinata’s mind fuzzes out a bit when he rubs up against it, watching as they slide together easily.

“Oh,” Hinata says, voice small. “You—you need to be inside me.”

Kageyama runs his hands down Hinata’s sides. It almost tickles. “Glove compartment,” he says.

Hinata snaps it open and finds exactly what he wants—a little bottle of lube that he hands over when Kageyama motions for it.

“Hinata, you—have you done this before?” Kageyama asks.

“Yeah,” Hinata says. “If you haven’t, it’s okay—I can show—”

“I’m not a virgin,” Kageyama interrupts.

Hinata is so surprised that he stops moving. “You’re not?” This whole time, he had assumed, what with Kageyama’s inherently standoffish nature…

“Um,” Kageyama says slowly. “I was the youngest tournament champion for four years running since I was sixteen… I’m _really_ not a virgin.”

 _Right._ Hinata tries, and probably fails, not to pout a little bit. It’s one thing that he’s not going to be Kageyama’s first (Kageyama won’t be his, either), but it’s another thing entirely that Kageyama may have a considerable lead on his experience.

“Don’t sulk,” Kageyama says instantly.

“I’m not sulking,” Hinata says, sulkily.

Kageyama pulls him down to kiss him again. “Well, you won’t be, soon,” he murmurs, and he pushes one slick finger into Hinata, sliding it slowly inside him.

Hinata’s eyes fly open wide. This isn’t a new thing, for him, but the sensation of Kageyama entering him is entirely different than any he’s felt before. His fingers are long, and talented, and it doesn’t take much time before Hinata is gasping out for “More, _more.”_

The second finger is harder to take and he knits his eyebrows together, trying not to focus on it, trying to relax. Kageyama runs his other hand up and down his back, holding him close.

“Ah—I’m okay—” Hinata tells him. Kageyama scissors his two fingers and Hinata’s hips jolt, his whole body going rigid—and then Kageyama begins to thrust, hard and fast, before he presses in deep and rubs inside of him. And Hinata gets _loud._

Kageyama presses hot, open-mouthed kisses all over his upper body, covering his chest and shoulders in them and Hinata pays him back by filling the car with the sound of his moans, long and drawn out and filthy. He can’t talk, he can’t form words, he hopes Kageyama understands what his noises mean—he wants to be stretched around more than fingers, he needs it _now._

He hears the sound of foil tearing, watching through watering eyes as Kageyama rips open the packet with his teeth and rolls a condom over his entire length one-handed before pouring lube over himself. He pulls his fingers out of Hinata and curls them around the base of his cock, holding himself ready.

“Sit on it,” Kageyama tells him. And maybe it’s the racer in Hinata, but _fuck,_ he wants to—is going to—ride this man so hard.

He raises up on his knees so he can position himself, lowering just enough to feel the tip of Kageyama’s cock teasing his entrance. And he pauses, holding Kageyama’s gaze, letting the anticipation build up like it always does right at the starting line.

Kageyama leans slowly forward, until his lips are nearly touching Hinata’s. “You’re a little shit,” he growls, before he thrusts upward and into Hinata, burying himself halfway before falling back to the seat, and Hinata comes with, dropping himself onto the thick cock waiting for him, sinking all the way onto Kageyama on his first try.

Kageyama grits his teeth and holds onto his hips, but doesn’t move another inch. Hinata squeezes his arms tight enough that it will probably bruise, and breathes sharply through his nose, adjusting.

“Tell me when it’s okay,” Kageyama says. And just the sound of his voice _makes_ it okay, Hinata wraps his arms around him and Kageyama bends forward, curling his big frame over Hinata’s small one—and he moves.

It doesn’t hurt—not exactly—but it’s tight and Kageyama feels huge inside him, making him shake and gasp. He feels Kageyama’s grip on him tighten. His mouth is right next to Hinata’s ear.

“I wish I could have seen you race, today,” Kageyama says, voice low.

“Y-yeah?” Hinata asks. It sounds a bit like a sob.

“Yeah.” Kageyama brushes his lips over Hinata’s ear, kisses the soft skin right behind it. They’re pressed so close together that Hinata’s cock slides between the slick skin of their stomachs whenever Kageyama thrusts into him, hard and slow. “You did everything right. You were amazing.”

A jolt of pleasure ripples up Hinata’s spine and he tries to grind his hips down. Kageyama rocks up to meet him and— _there_ it is. That thread of pleasure, he can see it now, it’s starting to unravel.

“I’m amazing, Kageyama?” He tightens his hand in Kageyama’s hair.

“Yeah, stupid,” Kageyama confirms for him. “You’re really— _ah_ — _really_ good.”

Hinata clenches tight around him, making the other man groan. The words and the way Kageyama is moving inside him have him strung out, melting. He throws out a hand and it meets the window, sliding over the perspiring surface, leaving a long swipe from one end of the fogged, steamed glass to the other in the shape of his fingers.

“I told you,” he gasps, “that I was.”

He feels Kageyama’s lips curl into a smirk against his jaw. “It only started to apply recently.”

Hinata reaches his hand down, finds the lever for the seatback, and yanks on it. The seat is thrown into a reclining position and Kageyama is caught off guard just long enough for Hinata to push him down backwards and straddle him, sitting directly on top of him.

“I’ve always been good,” he tells Kageyama.

Kageyama’s hair is disheveled for once, falling into his eyes as he looks up at Hinata, cheeks flushed, chest heaving as he gasps for breath. “I’m going to make you even better.”

Hinata grips his shoulders and starts to fuck him into the leather seat.

The whole car rocks on its wheels as Kageyama meets him thrust for thrust, slamming up into him, and his cock hits deep within Hinata, making him toss his head and arch his back as he cries out for the man inside him over and over, name mixed in among the breathless screams. And then Kageyama is finally moaning out, “Hinata, _fuck,”_ as he comes apart beneath him, hips jerking unevenly and bouncing Hinata out of rhythm as his orgasm rocks through him.

Hinata puts a hand to his own cock and Kageyama’s fingers wrap around him, pumping him while he finishes inside of Hinata, and then—blinding, sweet heat courses through Hinata’s entire body, filling him up until he’s overflowing, spilling wet over their fingers. He gives a few helpless, small thrusts of his hips before he’s collapsing down onto Kageyama’s sweaty chest, lying utterly still.

He barely moves when Kageyama pulls out, but after a moment, he feels fingers stroking through his hair.

“Strong finish,” he murmurs.

“Can we just stay here?” Kageyama wonders.

“Tanaka and Noya will come looking.”

“They wouldn’t be able to see us because of the…” Kageyama runs a finger over the fogged up window. It makes a ridiculously loud squeaking noise, which Hinata suddenly finds is the most hilarious thing in the world. “It wasn’t that funny,” Kageyama says, when a minute has gone by and he still can’t stop laughing.

“No, I know, I just,” Hinata snorts. “Sorry, it’s just that this was really—” Good, he wants to say, but that’s not the right word. Perfect seems cheesy.

“Thanks,” Kageyama says, which seems like an odd response at first, until he follows it up with, “for making me do it.”

Hinata is glad he has a firm understanding of how incredibly awkward Kageyama will always be, because he knows he doesn’t mean the _sex—_ he means the race, but obviously can’t quite bring himself to say that.

“Well, I am pretty amazing,” he boasts, and Kageyama sighs.

“I knew I’d regret telling you that.”

Hinata dissolves into another giggling fit, and it’s only when Kageyama moves to put his shirt back on that he tries to get it under control.

“Okay, okay,” he says. “Don’t, not yet.”

“We have to get out of the car eventually,” Kageyama tells him, though even he doesn’t sound convinced.

Hinata doesn’t want to ever get out of the car, and he says as much. “Just a little while longer.” He tightens his arms around Kageyama. “Stay.”

The mechanic rolls his eyes and flops back against the seat. “Quit acting like I’m going anywhere without you.”

Hinata smiles into his neck. He knows he doesn’t need to worry, because Kageyama already told him that no matter what happened, he’d be Hinata’s—mechanic, teammate, friend, and now this.

He holds up his palm and Kageyama threads his long fingers through Hinata’s own small ones, before curling their joined hands into a tight fist.

They’re sharing the same road now. Neither of them is going anywhere without the other.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sound of the drums  
> Beating in my heart  
> The thunder of guns  
> Tore me apart  
> You've been -- [thunderstruck](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v2AC41dglnM)
> 
> \--
> 
> Whew, that was fun! Thanks to my darling [Ellie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellessey/works) for editing over this whirlwind of a writing week, and to you for reading! 
> 
> Also, for anyone interested in seeing what the Karasuno crew drives, check out the visual reference [here](http://esselley.tumblr.com/post/143645733069/speed-demons-the-cars). More art, ficlets, and headcanons can be found on my ['Speed Demons' tag](http://esselley.tumblr.com/tagged/speed%20demons) on Tumblr.
> 
> The soundtrack for this series can be found [here!](http://esselley.tumblr.com/post/152264988549/the-soundtrack-for-speed-demons-is-now-on-spotify#notes)
> 
> [I'm [@esselley](http://esselley.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, [@Esselle_hq](https://twitter.com/Esselle_hq) on Twitter]

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Clutch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7607563) by [meglorraine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meglorraine/pseuds/meglorraine)




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